Grubbing, Florida Style

April 22, 1985

It was only about 10 years ago that Fort Myers Beach was a quiet haven for a few thousand people. Who wouldn't have loved to be on this picturesque subtropic island on Florida's west coast? Six miles of sandy white beaches lapping up the gentle Gulf waves.

But look at it now. What a mess.

A building boom hit this peaceful island with the force of a hurricane. Now, during the winter season, 25,000 people fight for their place on this tiny island. That's 9,340 people to the square mile. It's as crowded as the city of Baltimore.

It's not surprising that people have to fight for a spot on the beach, that is if they still want to go to the beach. The diehards must push aside the bottles and the trash. Just getting around the island is a major trip. In the place of leisurely drives are headaches from the bumper-to-bumper cars, bikes and people on a treacherous, narrow main road. Half-hour waits in standstill traffic aren't unusual.

It's not surprising that people have to fight for a spot on beach, that is if they still want to go to the beach. The diehards must push aside the bottles and the trash. Just getting around the island is a major trip. In the place of leisurely drives are headaches from the bumper-to-bumper cars, bikes and people on a treacherous, narrow main road. Half-hour waits in standstill traffic aren't unusual.

There still are beautiful neighborhoods, but even the people there find themselves fighting for water pressure and fearing the increased crime. And good luck in a hurricane. The only escape routes are two bridges, one at each end of the island.

By then the sea was rolling all the way across the key in a half-dozen places. The small-boat rescues had retrieved nearly forty people . . . before the increasing strength of the wind made the bay far too dangerous. One launch, bringing ten back, broached and foundered near the wind-damaged bridge with . . . two survivors.

How long before those fictional lines from John D. MacDonald's Condominium become an all-too-true description of Florida's next killer 'cane? It's no wonder that Florida's southwest coast was the scene. John MacDonald's fiction is Florida's shameful truth.

We're telling the story of Fort Myers Beach because it's the story of all of Florida's coastal cities: They are being ruined by grossly irresponsible growth built on a single, twisted premise: that the quick buck simply can't be denied. Let Florida be destroyed, but never say no to any awful scheme.

Lee County, which includes Fort Myers Beach, grubbed for growth without thinking about tomorrow. County commissioners invited everyone in because big beachfront developments pay plenty of taxes. Then they built a bigger and better bridge to make even more development easier. They had almost no zoning restrictions and never even worried about where all the sewage would go.

What the people in Lee County refused to admit is that coastal areas can't absorb the same kind of development as high ground 20 miles inland. They ignored the fact that on an island there's only so much water you can suck up before it turns salty. They ignored the fact that there are only so many places where you can dump sewage and garbage without fouling the bays. And they ignored the fact that there are only so many roads you can build to all the new condos.

Don't put all the blame on Lee County commissioners. Blame Florida legislators as well. They let beach communities build, build and overbuild without looking at the pathetic results. That, too, is Florida's Shame.

Mind you, coastal counties are supposed to have a plan laying out how they will cope with their special problems. But counties have just laughed at the law. They haven't veered from their greedy ways. And the Legislature has let them do it. Rather than offend the power brokers, legislators haven't given anyone the clout to see that the plans are followed or that the plans make any sense at all.

Consider the Volusia County coastal plan: It reads like something dreamed up in the writers' lounge at Saturday Night Live. It devotes half a page to the coast and, pitifully, it makes five recommendations -- none of which has anything to do with making sure services such as water and roads are adequate. One recommendation: Provide more restrooms, showers and scenic outlooks on the beach. Those are needed, but to make this one of only five recommendations for managing Volusia's coast is a painful joke. No wonder Florida's coasts are being destroyed.

Florida has a choice: It can save those delicate coastal areas or it can rape them until there's nothing but the trashy remains. If the Legislature refuses to require local governments to recognize the coast's special needs and come up with meaningful plans to manage what goes on, the coasts will be consumed by their own development. And if legislators don't give someone the clout to make those plans stick, the plans are worthless.

What will it take to shake these people awake? Florida's coastline is its most precious economic, recreational and aesthetic resource, and it is being wiped out.

It may be too late for many coastal towns. Remember Lee County and its wanton destruction of Fort Myers Beach. At last the county commission has recognized that the price of its mismanagement is a horrendous loss, not only of dollars but in quality of life. Belatedly, it is cracking down. The shame is that it's too late. Fort Myers Beach is choking to death, a hapless victim of its ''success.''